Tango Papa Romeo Sierra
by artsavage
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate a haunting at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force. Set early season 3.


**Disclaimer: ** All the witty disclaimers are already taken. Sam and Dean belong to Kripke & Co., not me. 

**A/N:** Written for prompt numbers 18 and 19 at foundficspn over at LJ.

The museum and aircraft discussed herein are real. The ghosts are probably not. I've taken some liberties in describing the museum and its surroundings, most notably, the archives room. In real life, the museum's Research Division has limited public access, by appointment only. My description is based on a couple of pictures on the museum website.

The title is taken from one 20th Helicopter Squadron pilot's recollection of his time in Vietnam: "One of the sayings was 'This Place Sucks' (TPS) but someone added an 'R' to TPRS, 'this place REALLY sucks' so if you were talking to a Pony you would undoubtedly get a 'Tango Papa Romeo Sierra' somewhere in the conversation."

I am not an expert in planes, helicopters, Vietnam, or mysterious rituals. If you notice any egregious errors, please let me know!

This story is, in part, a tribute to Robert E. Schroeder and his widow, Winifred McCormick Schroeder.

* * *

A hot August wind snapped the flags overhead: United States, Ohio, Air Force. The parking lot was crowded with youth group field trips, harried parents and bored kids, wizened veterans, war buffs. The '67 Impala cut through the lot, sleek, dark, out of place among late-model sedans, boxy SUVs, jellybean minivans. 

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam Winchester shook his head, bit back a grin. On the tape deck, Megadeth growled through "Hangar 18."

Dean Winchester swung the Impala into a spot with two empty slots on either side, threw the car in park, shot Sam a smirk. "Hell, yes, Sam. It's necessary. Like listening to 'Vote With a Bullet' on Election Day."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah? And when was the last time you voted?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, y'know, back before I was wanted and all." He cut the music, the ignition. Silence rushed in. They locked up the car and headed for the entrance.

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, located in Dayton, Ohio, housed the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force, a collection of historic aircraft and artifacts. It was also home to the eponymous hangar of the Megadeth song, where alien technology from the Roswell crash had supposedly been taken. Sam should have expected the dubious musical accompaniment, as well versed as he was in the law of Dean, but he could not imagine for the life of him how his brother had managed to conjure a mix tape with that song. Surely the black arts were involved.

A blast of cold air hit them just inside the museum's front doors. They found themselves staring up at a bronze statue of Icarus, classically buff and decorated with a strategically-placed fig leaf. Dean cocked an eyebrow. Sam answered with a shrug.

Admission to the museum was free, but Sam slipped a twenty into the donation box while Dean wasn't looking. They headed through the gift shop, an array of books, model airplanes, and reproduction bomber jackets. "All right," Dean said, "Our guy's name is Thomas McCormick. Base archivist. Said his office is on the second floor, left of the stairs."

Sam pushed his hair back from his eyes, glanced at the visitor's map he'd printed from the museum website. Started in the direction of the stairs. "So how did this guy get your number?"

"Remember Jerry Panowski?"

"Yeah, the United Britannia guy?"

"Yep. McCormick's an old college buddy of his. Guess these plane buffs stick together."

The archives room was small, with moveable shelves to create more space. Cabinets and work tables took up the rest of the room, the cramped area typical of an agency on a government budget. An assistant pointed them to McCormick's office, a tiny room crowded with more books.

The man behind the desk looked to be in his mid-forties, with a trim build and curly, graying hair. He looked up over the rim of his glasses, silver wire frames to match gray eyes. He gave a bland smile, the introvert's substitute for _may I help you?_

"Mr. McCormick?" Dean asked. "Dean Winchester. We spoke on the phone? This is my brother, Sam."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course." The customer-service smile was replaced by something more genuine. McCormick got up from the desk and stepped carefully around a stack of thick manuals to shake hands. "Call me Tom, please."

An awkward silence settled over the room; Sam recognized the social anxiety common to academics. Probably the subject matter at hand wasn't helping. McCormick glanced around the office. "I'd ask you to sit down, but – " He tilted his head toward the single book-strewn guest chair. "Why don't we try the cafeteria? Buy you some coffee? Lunch?"

Dean's face lit up, the biggest smile Sam had seen from him in days. Ordinarily, Sam might have declined out of politeness, but neither of them had any delusions about getting paid for this job – not on a government archivist's dime – and it had been a long couple of weeks. Sam answered, "Lunch would be great. We got on the road pretty early this morning."

McCormick led the way out of the archives room toward the cafeteria. "Yeah, Dean said you were coming from Amarillo? Hell of a drive to make in two days."

Dean shrugged, looking entirely too pleased at the prospect of a cafeteria lunch. "We go where the job takes us."

The cafeteria had a good view of the grounds around the base, though there wasn't a whole lot to see. Flat land, unused airstrips, a few Korea- and Vietnam-era planes on outdoor display. Scrub trees, rows of cookie-cutter apartments. Beyond the summertime haze, cars streamed past on the highway.

The plastic lunch trays looked like they'd been around since the '70s, off-white with gold flecks and a fetching museum logo. They loaded up, Sam only marginally showing more restraint than his brother – hell, he was starving, too – and took a seat in a booth near the windows. For a moment, none of them spoke, unwrapping straws and plastic utensils, establishing a comfort zone. McCormick broke the silence. "Can't tell you how glad I am that you're here. Jerry said you guys really helped him out."

"Jerry's a good guy." Dean took a healthy swig of Coke. "So, uh, this problem you're having here…"

McCormick's face sagged. He ran a hand through his hair. Nibbled on a french fry. "This place has always had its share of ghost stories. There's a whole chapter in a book called _Haunted Ohio_. They say the guns rattle on the _Strawberry Bitch_. A little Japanese boy runs around _Bockscar_. The crew from the _Lady Be Good_ haunts its propeller. You know – harmless stories. But lately – " He shook his head. "A janitor said something invisible punched him in the face. One of the nighttime security guards quit in the middle of his shift – scared out of his mind, but he wouldn't tell anyone what he'd seen. And there have been accidents. One of our volunteers got beaned with a flying wrench. No one could figure out where it came from. Then, last week, one of the mechanics working on a restoration was nearly killed by a propeller when the engine started unexpectedly…all by itself. There was nobody even _in_ the plane."

Dean raised his eyebrows, duly impressed. "Have any of these things happened around the same planes, or in the same areas?"

McCormick shook his head. "That's the thing – it's happened in public areas, in the restoration hangars, hell – a female volunteer said a cold hand grabbed her ankle while she was in the ladies' room."

"Wow." Sam swallowed a bite of his hamburger. "Could be multiple spirits."

McCormick gave a sad smile. "As many of these aircraft had fatalities, I wouldn't be surprised if every one of them were haunted."

Dean grunted in agreement. "Not to mention some of those artifacts, I bet."

"So how does this work, exactly?" McCormick asked. "I mean, how do you…"

"Send Casper on his way?" Dean supplied.

McCormick nodded.

Dean's eyes cut toward Sam, a subtle gesture no one else would have noticed that said, _diplomacy's your job, geek boy_.

"Well," Sam started, keeping his voice pitched low, "the standard method is to identify the spirit, locate the burial site, and salt and burn the remains."

To McCormick's credit, he didn't flinch or blanch, just tilted his head, listening with an academic's curiosity.

Sam went on, "Sometimes the person was already cremated. The spirit may have attached itself to a particular object. In that case, we try to find the object and destroy it."

A twitch at that, no doubt thinking of some of those priceless artifacts.

"Of course," Sam said, "we'll try to avoid that at all cost in this situation."

McCormick nodded.

"Another option is to summon the spirit, try to convince it to leave. And if all else fails, there are some rituals and spells."

McCormick laughed, pulled off his glasses. Rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I can honestly say this is the most surreal conversation I've ever had."

Dean grinned, reached over to steal some of Sam's fries. "We may be a lot of things," he said, "but we're never boring."

* * *

A sweep of the museum for EMF would have to wait; without the camouflage of a jacket pocket, the meters would be too conspicuous. They walked the museum as tourists, getting a feel for the layout. In the Early Years Gallery, they saw everything from an observation blimp to a Sopwith Camel. The Air Power Gallery – the World War II section – seemed to be a good bet for the source of their spirit. Most of the planes had seen action; thanks to the pragmatic wartime mentality, damaged planes had been rebuilt or their parts reused. With the help of a list printed from the internet and some notes from McCormick, Sam and Dean scoped out some of the more notable displays. _Bockscar_, the plane that had dropped the "Fat Man" bomb on Nagasaki, was supposed to be haunted by a Japanese boy, but that didn't make much sense to Sam. That bomb had killed thousands – why would the spirit of one boy attach itself to the plane? 

Some of the other bombers seemed more likely candidates; the _Strawberry Bitch_ or the _Shoo Shoo Shoo Baby_, for example, had both seen plenty of action. Then there was the propeller McCormick had mentioned, recovered from the wrecked _Lady Be Good_, which had crashed in the Libyan desert in 1943. One of the nine crewmen had died when his parachute failed. The rest died in the desert, some of them having walked over eighty miles from the crash site, searching for civilization.

Browsing through McCormick's notes, Sam saw the man was right: just about any given object in the museum could be haunted. Helicopters that had transported the dead and wounded, planes that had been shot up and repaired, personal effects and recovered debris from doomed flights. Hell, there were even a few Nazi planes. Sam really didn't relish the thought of trying to find those remains or convince a German-speaking ghost to move on.

He was heading to the Modern Flight Gallery, the Korea- and Vietnam-era exhibits, when he realized he'd lost Dean. He backtracked through the WWII exhibits, found his brother behind the _Strawberry Bitch_, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring up at the tailgunner's position.

Sam stopped short before Dean noticed him. From a distance, Dean could be anyone – an engineering student, a high school teacher. A historian doing research. A dad waiting for his kids to catch up.

The sense of sorrow hit him, sudden, sharp. What path might Dean have chosen, had this life – their fucked-up life – not chosen for him?

Sam shook himself, tried not to think of futures lost forever, of time running out. He joined Dean at the rear of the plane. "Hey. Find something?"

There was a faraway look in Dean's eyes, a thoughtfulness Sam knew few others had ever seen. "Mom's uncle flew in one of these," Dean said. "Tailgunner."

Quite possibly the last thing Sam had expected to hear. "Really?"

"Yeah. Uncle Bob. Got shot down over Austria, I think. He was a P.O.W. for like, six months, right at the end of the war, till Patton came through."

"No shit. I never knew that."

"Me and Dad were watching some thing on the History Channel one night. He told me about it then." Dean blinked as if coming out of a trance. Glanced over at Sam. "Shit. I don't even remember the last time we saw Uncle Bob. I must have been – five? Six?" A bitter smile. He turned away. Sam followed.

* * *

Dean jerked awake late in the afternoon, a hot patch of sun framing his bed, glinting off the line of salt at the window and the giant propeller mounted on the wall. Reality filtered in one detail at a time, the primary colors of the flight-themed room gradually washing over dreams of fire and blood. Airplane-patterned bedspread. Airplane-shaped lamp. A laminated placard on the nightstand proclaimed, "Ohio – First in Flight!" Letters scrawled in Sharpie marker underneath: "Suck it, North Carolina." 

They had a long night ahead, but Dean hadn't wanted to sleep. Hated the fact that he needed sleep. Kept hearing his father's voice: _You can sleep when you're dead_. The words rang a little too true these days.

Outside, cars rushed past on a state route. In the cocoon of the room, no sound but the hiss of the air conditioning and the soft clack of Sam at the laptop keys.

Dean rustled the sheets, stretched slowly, letting Sam believe he was just waking up. Sam seemed to think Dean never had nightmares.

Sam thought a lot of things. Dean was fine with letting it stay that way.

He sat up. Sam looked over, face pallid in the washed-out glow of the laptop screen. "Hey," he said.

Dean grunted in reply, rubbed at his eyes. He took a long swig from the bottle of water he'd left on the nightstand, room temperature now. "Find anything?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms up over his head. "Maybe. I've been trying to narrow down our list of planes. It seems like all of the legends center on the same ones: the _Strawberry Bitch_,_Bockscar_, the parts from the _Lady Be Good_.

"There are also two helicopters, the _Black Mariah_, which flew covert ops in Vietnam, and the _Hopalong_, which was a rescue chopper in Korea. Those stories are almost interchangeable: the pilots can be seen in the cockpit, flipping switches, trying to get home.

"Then there's a Nazi plane – none of the stories actually say which one. In one version, the pilot waves and poses for pictures. In the other, he just gives people a stern look."

"Second one sounds a little more like a Nazi."

"I guess. I gotta tell you, Dean, the stories all reek of urban legend, but a lot of these planes saw some heavy shit. McCormick was right – just about any of them could be haunted."

Dean stood, knees popping. Stretched, back popping. He leaned next to the window, looked out on the parking lot. Weeds grew up through the cracks in the blacktop. Out on the road, traffic flowed past in a glinting stream. "So we should sweep the whole place just to be safe?" He turned back to Sam.

Sam shrugged, nodded. "Maybe we pay a bit more attention to those planes, but, yeah. The real bitch will be identifying our spirit. It wasn't always the same crew on the same plane. If we figure out the particular incident involved, we can request a mission report, but…"

"So much for a simple salt-and-burn."

"Looks that way."

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Nothing's ever easy, is it?"

Sam's eyes went all soft, his mouth pinched into the sympathetic frown that always made witnesses open up.

Damn. Dean hadn't meant to sound so maudlin. He must be slipping. He grabbed some clean clothes. "Well, I'm gonna hit the shower." Glanced at the laptop screen as he passed. Sam might have been researching the planes earlier, but right now, the browser was open to a search for one Robert E. Schroeder, B-24 tailgunner.

Huh. Should have known Sam would latch onto that. "Might wanna try the National Archives site," Dean said. "They've got a database of World War II P.O.W.s."

He closed the bathroom door on Sam's astonished face. Felt good now and then to remind the kid he knew how to do his job.

* * *

Nighttime hadn't cooled things off by much, but most traffic had vanished. Hot wind whipped through the open windows as they headed back up the Colonel Glenn Highway. Cicadas hummed in the trees. In the shadows, a few late-season fireflies blinked. The Impala's tape deck played Iron Maiden's "Aces High." 

"Seriously, Dean?"

"Damn straight, Sam."

* * *

The museum at night was a suitably spooky affair; without the overhead spots lighting displays, the hangars were all shadows. At least they had permission for this job, sort of. McCormick had introduced the Winchesters to the nighttime security guards – the guys who had seen a lot of the weird shit go down. They were all for getting rid of the ghost; if Sam and Dean could help, the brothers were more than welcome. As long as nothing major went down – serious damage or injuries – this hunt was sanctioned. 

So far, Dean was enjoying the hell out of this job. Nice people, free food, and though he'd never admit it to Sam, he could really get into this history shit. Besides, Sam seemed to be getting a kick out of ragging on Dean's fear of flying (_flying_, mind you – it wasn't like he was afraid of planes just _sitting_ there, not that Sam made the distinction), so it was all good.

They started out in the Early Years Gallery. Sam and Dean carried an EMF meter apiece and Dean a duffel bag, loaded for bear. Or, you know, Nazi. Whichever.

A Nazi ghost would really suck.

Nothing in that first gallery, though the pasty-faced mannequins in the basket of that observation blimp looked pretty freaky. They moved on to the Air Power Gallery, starting with _Bockscar_, which, Jesus, was one huge-ass plane. Dean jumped the metal barrier to get a closer look, running his fingers over a line of rivets.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam gave him a priceless, furrowed-brow bitchface.

"Come on, it's not like there are any of those old-guy volunteers around to yell at us."

"Fine," Sam huffed. "Don't bitch at me when you break some priceless artifact."

"Stick in the mud," Dean muttered. He vaulted back over the rail.

The meters stayed quiet. Nothing for the _Strawberry Bitch_ or the pieces of the_Lady Be Good_. Nothing for the _Shoo Shoo Shoo Baby_ or the Nazi planes. They stopped at the display of artifacts from concentration camps, and damn, if anything in this place was haunted, that stuff should be. Nothing. They moved on to the Modern Flight Gallery.

The next notable aircraft was the _Hopalong_, a silver helicopter that had been used for transporting the wounded in Korea. Sam leaned over the railing and tried to peer inside. "This is the one where they say the seat is still stained with the pilot's blood."

"Well, you're not gonna see anything from there." Dean jumped the rail and peeked in the door. "I dunno, man, I'm not seeing it."

They moved on. Their footsteps and voices echoed in the high empty space.

"So how you holding up?" Sam asked.

"Just dandy."

"You know, a phobia's nothing to be ashamed of. I read somewhere John Madden is afraid of flying."

Dean just grinned, shook his head. "Sam. Don't make me bring up clourophobia. What's next?"

"The _Black Mariah_," Sam said. "One of the 'Jolly Green Giant' helicopters in Vietnam, only this one was painted black, hence the name. Used for highly classified missions. Some say it was where all the 'black helicopter' stories started."

Sam nodded toward the chopper. The _Black Mariah_ was pretty ominous looking, flat black, few markings. Understandable how it could inspire dread in those on the ground. They circled it, EMF meters held at arm's length.

The meters stayed quiet, but something about the thing raised Dean's hackles. He passed it off with a smirk. "You know, Sammy, you think I'm scared of planes? I'm really scared of helicopters."

That got a funny look from Sam. Dean moved ahead before he could ask. The plane directly behind the _Black Mariah_ was under restoration, roped off with caution tape. Stencils were taped to the plane's flank; cans of spray paint waited for the next day's work.

Now, that could be promising. Restorations sometimes got spirits all up in arms. Besides, this particular craft, a cargo plane that had been used to spray Agent Orange, had been shot up so many times, its name was_Patches_.

Still nothing. Dean shook his meter, snapped it off and on, but Sam's was silent, too.

"Damn," Sam said. "We're running out of options here."

"Well, we've still got the Cold War Gallery. And the rockets. Maybe our spirit's one of those monkeys they shot into space."

And hell, maybe it _was_ one of those monkeys, because as soon as he said it, Dean walked smack into a cold spot and the EMF meters started going apeshit, no pun intended. Dean slung the duffel around, passed Sam a sawed-off filled with salt rounds. The cold spot turned into a cold wind. His breath clouded in front of his face.

As his fingers brushed the barrel of the second gun, the energy in the air coalesced. A shimmering figure stood before him, nebulous, black holes for eyes. The image stuttered, shifted closer. Sam's shot and the crushing blow were simultaneous; the spirit lurched out of the way of the salt spread and Dean went flying, slamming into the hangar wall.

_Christ_. The pain flared in his back, stole his breath, and then cold, flickering hands threw him to the ground. His head cracked against concrete. Dean had a moment to wonder, _Jesus, how many more concussions before I'm a vegetable?_ before the wavering form loomed over him, icy fingers gripped his face, and the world went dark.

* * *

_Smoke and sweat. Cordite. Blood. Underneath, the smell of rot and wet earth._

_He ran. Past the bloated corpse of a water buffalo. Past a dead woman curled stiff around a dead child. Dead VC, staring up at the sky._

_Behind him, fire. Ahead, the chopper. Flat black, rotors beating._

_Just a few more yards._

* * *

The ghost vanished with Sam's second salt blast. He slid to his knees at Dean's side. "Dean. You all right? Talk to me, man." 

Dean's eyes snapped open, the hazel muddy with pain. _"Fuck."_

Sam let out his breath. He gave Dean a hand, hauled him up to sit against the wall.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "That's gonna leave a mark." He leaned forward a bit to take the pressure off his back.

"You all right, man?" Sam asked again. "You were out for a minute there."

"Yeah, I think so." Dean rubbed the back of his head, winced when he found the spot where he'd hit. "It showed me something."

For a second, Sam wondered just how hard Dean's head had hit. "What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged, sucked in a breath with the pain of the movement. "When I was out, I saw…I dunno…a jungle, I guess, and bodies, and smoke – I could even _smell_ it." He stopped, frowning down at the floor, then looked up at Sam. "And the chopper. It was the _Black Mariah_," he said.

* * *

They got to work the next morning under the fluorescent lights of the archives room, scouring documents and databases for more information on the _Black Mariah_. Both of them were running on coffee, Sam having spent what was left of the night poking Dean awake every hour. The story they'd given McCormick was the sanitized version, but they both looked like shit, and the livid purple bruise that covered most of Dean's back was visible at his neck, blooming from underneath the collar of his shirt. 

By lunchtime, Sam felt like he'd spent the last three hours bashing his head against a wall. Most of the information on the _Mariah_ was still classified. What little wasn't could take weeks to get, and there was no way to narrow down which mission had caused their spirit's demise. There were different crews on different flights, plus ground troops and crew members of downed craft being evacuated. Too bad Dean hadn't been able to recall any details of uniforms or insignia. The vision (or whatever the hell you wanted to call it; Dean was pretty skittish about that word) had been too vague, too dark.

Sam watched his brother from the corner of his eye, cataloging each time Dean winced as he moved. His thoughts kept circling back to that cryptic comment Dean had made the night before, about being scared of helicopters. Was he just fucking with Sam? Had he been picking up on some freaky vibe from the _Black Mariah_ even then? Or was it one of those nuggets of truth Dean liked to slip in amongst all the bullshit from time to time?

As far as Sam knew, the only time Dean had ever flown in a helicopter was the medevac flight after that semi had T-boned the Impala, and Dean hadn't even been conscious then. Was there some other story – maybe something from those years when Sam was at Stanford?

It hurt Sam to think of those years, though he knew he'd needed that time away. Knew otherwise he wouldn't be the man he was today. But those years left a black hole in his knowledge of his brother. What things had happened in that time to make Dean who he was? And if there really was no way to free Dean from his deal – how many of those stories would Sam ever get to hear?

Dean glanced up – a hunter's sense of being watched. "What the fuck are you looking at?" The stage whisper was his only concession to the quiet.

"Sorry." Sam turned back to his notes. Okay. Fuck. Time to refocus. Research was getting them nowhere fast. He opened their father's journal, paged through looking for the ritual he had in mind.

A long shadow fell over the pages. Tom McCormick pulled up a chair on the other side of the table. "I haven't had much luck," he told Sam. "Called a few contacts. I was even able to track down a couple of pilots who flew the _Mariah_. But there are just too many possibilities."

"That's okay," Sam said. "I think we're moving on to Plan B. We should be able to summon the spirit and then use a banishment spell."

McCormick tilted his head. "Is there a reason digging up and burning a corpse is Plan A?"

Touché. "Sometimes spirits don't take too kindly to one's efforts to remove them. There can be a bit more risk involved."

McCormick's eyes flicked over toward Dean, the bruise on his neck. "How did you guys get into all this in the first place?"

Sam considered and discarded his crappy-guidance-counselor line. "Family business," he said.

"Ever consider another line of work?"

"I was going to go to law school," Sam said. "But now – " He shook his head. "Once you know what's really out there…it's kind of hard to turn your back."

Dean kept his head down, focused on the laptop screen. Anyone else might have assumed he wasn't listening. Sam knew better.

* * *

Iron Maiden on the tape deck. "Flight of Icarus." 

"What is this, the flight-themed edition of the best of hair metal?"

"Dude. Maiden is _not_ hair metal."

* * *

The candles had to be lit in a certain order, symbols chalked in a certain order. Dean laid down a thick salt circle, then stood guard, shotgun ready, while Sam set out the supplies and drew on the floor in thick, confident lines. 

Flare of matches, faint smell of sulfur as Sam lit the candles. Dean kept his back to his brother, walked the rim of the salt circle, nerves thrumming. Behind him, Sam began the Latin invocation.

Nothing at first. Then Dean felt a low vibration, like the rumble of a train at a distance. It hummed in the air, through the floor, through his bones.

The cold came next, turning their breath to white mist. Dean roamed the circle, searched for any sign of a target. Nothing. Only dim light, candle flickers reflected in the sheet metal of planes.

Sam finished the first half of the spell, sifted the proper mixture of herbs into the candle flame. Soft whoosh, brief flare.

The wind whipped up, frigid, rustling the pages of the journal. Dean smelled herbs and beeswax and ozone.

Then smoke.

Then rot.

The figure appeared in a flicker of blue light right in front of Dean. He fired, but the spirit was gone before the salt spread hit. The wind whistled, stronger now. Dean glanced down at the salt line. Wouldn't hold for long. "Sam, get on with it."

New urgency in Sam's tone as he began the second half of the spell, the banishment. Dean circled again. Where the fuck was this thing? The wind was strong enough now to turn rotors and propellers. Dean hoped those candles didn't have to stay lit.

A flicker, there, out of the corner of his eye. He turned. The second he realized the salt line had broken, the shotgun ripped out of his hands, the charge in the air sending it flying one way, Dean the other.

He hit the cargo plane,_ Patches_, with a hollow clang that would have been hilarious if not for the blinding pain. He dropped in a heap to the ground, choked back a whimper.

Fuck. Sam's words had stopped. "Keep going!" Dean yelled. Felt like the last of his breath. The Latin started up again. Dean pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He squinted into the stinging wind, tears at the corners of his eyes.

Translucent blue shape, black shadow-eyes. It leaned in close to him; he couldn't help but shrink back. Icy fear trickled down his spine. Low electric hum. His skin tingled where it touched him as it slammed him into the plane again. Dazed, he dropped. He held on to Sam's voice, the comforting cadence of Latin, even as the spirit touched him, cold burn on either side of his face, and everything went black.

* * *

_Black._

_Black, but not night. Was it the jungle canopy or the billowing smoke that made it so dark? He ran, branches and vines whipping his face, lungs burning, right arm gone numb. A weight on his shoulder. Another man, lifted in a fireman's carry. Still breathing? Hard to tell._

_Clearing ahead, and the thump of the rotors. Muzzle flash from the chopper, aiming around him, lighting the bird's flat black skin._

_Almost there._

_Muzzle flashes behind him. Rifle cracks. Full-auto bursts._

_He was on his knees before the pain hit, then it spiked up his leg, raw agony. He couldn't hang on. The man on his shoulder flopped forward, hit the ground._

_Goddamn it, so close. Wind from the rotors beat down in waves as he tried to get his right leg under him, tried to stand, one hand still fisted in the other man's shirt. Something punched him in the back. He looked down, surprised to see blood blossom on his chest._

_When he fell, the chopper's wind washing over him, all he could think was, _nice breeze.

* * *

Sam forced his way through the last of the incantation, voice shaking, trying to ignore the fact that the goddamned ghost had Dean, was slamming him around, was leaning over him and _doing_ something to him – 

_Just keep your shit together_.

With the last of the Latin, a low rumble built in the ground. The spirit jerked back from Dean. Its form stuttered, once, twice, a guttering candle. Sam's ears popped. Blue light blazed.

Vanished.

Sam dropped the journal, scrambled to Dean's side. His brother laid on his back, tense and trembling.

"Dean? Oh god, Dean?"

Sam couldn't keep the note of panic out of his voice. He wasn't sure which was worse – the translucent blue hands that had gripped Dean's head, or the fact that Dean was still _out_ – sweating, shaking, breath shallow, eyes open but unseeing. How long had he been in this state? Felt like forever, but it could only have been a minute or two.

Still too long.

Sam had his cell phone in hand, ready to call 911, when Dean sucked in a deeper breath, turned his head. His eyelids fluttered.

"Jesus. _Dean_." Sam left his hand on Dean's chest, needing to feel the rise and fall.

Dean's eyes roved, taking in the silver-skinned wing above them before settling on Sam's face. "Sammy?" Voice small. Confused. "Did we get it?"

"Yeah, Dean. We got it. You all right?" God, the stupid shit you say at times like this. Sam swallowed back a desperate laugh.

Dean seemed to consider the question. Tried to sit. Groaned and gave up. "Hurts like a_bitch_."

"I bet. Ol'_Patches_ here's not exactly pillow-soft." Sam grinned, left his hand where it was so Dean wouldn't notice him shaking. "Made a pretty cool sound, though."

Dean gave a crooked smile. "Did, didn't it."

Sam couldn't say which one of them started first. Their laughter was breathy, borderline hysterical, and though Dean's face screwed up in pain, neither of them could stop. Sam waited it out, one hand wiping away the tears that rolled down his face, the other resting on Dean's chest, figuring he should just hang onto the moment until Dean smacked him away and called him a girl.

* * *

They left Ohio after a couple days of rest and icepacks, the longest Sam could get Dean to stay still. Sam rode shotgun, one finger tracing their route west on the map, though either one of them probably could have navigated by memory. 

The classic rock station Dean had found faded to static halfway between Dayton and Indianapolis. He popped in a tape, fast forwarded until he found what he was looking for.

Iron Maiden's "Tailgunner."

Sam groaned, covered his face with both hands. "Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, are all these guys' songs about _flying?_"

Dean shrugged. "Well, Bruce Dickinson's a pilot, you know."

"Of course." Sam slouched lower in his seat. Maybe their next job would be harder to find music for.

A few dry cornfields later, Dean turned the volume down a notch. "You get bored, I printed out some stuff the other day. Robert E. Schroeder, 465th Bomb Group, 782nd Squadron. The _Easy Maid_ went down January 31st, 1945, on a mission to bomb the Moosebierbaum Oil Refinery. Our buddy McCormick said we can request a Missing Air Crew Report from Maxwell Air Force Base."

Sam sat up. "No shit?"

Dean nodded toward the backseat. "It's in with the laptop."

Sam reached into the back, found the printouts, started leafing through. Dean had even found a message board post from the _Easy Maid_'s nose gunner. A slow smile spread across his face. "Cool."

Dean grinned. The miles slipped by under the Impala's wheels, cornfields and rotting barns and even one llama farm, the flight-themed greatest hits of (totally not) hair metal playing softly.

Maybe by Illinois, Sam would work up the nerve to ask about helicopters.


End file.
